


Malcolm Goes to the Oberland

by morred



Category: Chalet School - Elinor M. Brent-Dyer, Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Crack, Elinor Brent-Dyer's turning in her grave, Gen, M/M, going to the mountains cures all illness, reading the wrong children's lit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morred/pseuds/morred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is shameless, mildly-flavoured crack. Malcolm is ILL and has to go to the fresh air of Switzerland to recuperate. Crossover with the Chalet School series by E. Brent-Dyer, but almost everything is understandable if you're not familiar with the books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malcolm Goes to the Oberland

**Author's Note:**

> Adult-rated for MANY jokes in extremely poor taste and bad language. I quite possibly do not treat chest illnesses with the seriousness they deserve. No-one dies and there is only mild description of Malcolm being a bit ill. You may want to skip if you're sensitive about pnuemonia, bronchitis and that sort of thing.

It started with a cough, but then Malcolm always had a cough, so no one paid too much attention, not even Sam. She listened while Malcolm ranted about how unfair it was that he had a cough like a fucking miner who'd smoked 60 a day since he was first sent down the pit at 5 years old, when in fact he'd never smoked, not properly, not like _Jamie_ , for instance.

But then Malcolm was asthmatic and did no exercise except shouting and occasionally running after ministers. Both these facts were known only to Sam, who had the keeping of both Malcolm's schedule and the Spare Emergency Inhaler. She knew full well Malcolm had no time to exercise - he was only whip-thin because he never ate.

The first thing that alerted Sam that something more serious might be up was that Malcolm's face lost something of its usual ashen pallor. Often, a red tinge suffused the grey cheeks and there was an unnatural brightness to his eyes. Sam put it down to a touch of 'flu, but when things didn't improve, and Malcolm's wheeziness seemed to be getting worse, she began to worry. She spoke to Jamie (over the years they had formed an unlikely but effective double-act), who concurred that something was wrong but told Sam to call him when she needed 'some brute force to make the bugger deal with whatever it is'.

When she caught Malcolm using his inhaler in his office _with the door open_ on the same day that Terri fucking Coverley called Sam's personal line to complain that Malcolm had been coughing up blood in the DoSAC kitchen sink and honestly, Terri didn't _want_ to make an official complaint, and of course she'd cleared it up _this time_ with no one the wiser, but could Sam perhaps _hint_ to Malcolm that this sort of thing was _not on_ 1, Sam knew something must be done.

  
1 Terri had come very near to telling Sam that she was worried about the blood because Malcolm was so pale and seemed to have lost even more weight and she'd cleaned up the flecks - actually, there was _quite a lot_ of blood, was that normal - without wearing gloves and she had a small cut on her finger and should she be worried or have a test or something? Luckily for Terri's life expectancy, she bottled it at the last minute.

-

Malcolm thought it was odd that Sam wouldn't say who his appointment was with, just that it was 'important' and that she'd personally thread a treasury tag through his bollocks, tear them off completely and file them in her cabinet under 'M' for 'Miniscule' 2 if he avoided it. He'd checked his diary and hacked into Sam's supposedly secret diary on the Mac in her office, but in both cases the hour-long appointment was simply marked 'important - keep clear'.

It was only when she ushered in Dr. Doyle that he realised he'd been forced into a doctor's appointment. Dr. Doyle, it transpired, was Sam's father's doctor and therefore extremely good, extremely expensive, and probably thought having a practice on Harley Street was rather _common_ (though would be too impeccably discreet to say so).

He checked Malcolm's reactions and asked a few brief preliminary questions, taking down illegible notes while Malcolm lied less than he thought he'd have to 3. Eventually, he managed to convince the doctor that his only potential problems were not eating regularly ('Missing lunch isn't 'not eating regularly'. It's fucking _normal_ if you're old enough that your mam isn't still packing you a fucking wee lunchbox'), not sleeping enough and drinking possibly very slightly too much coffee. So far, so typical early-fifties workaholic male. Better than many Dr. Doyle had seen.

It was when Dr. Doyle listened to his chest and got him to breathe in deeply (which produced a hacking cough and some frankly disgusting expectorate that Malcolm couldn't quite hide) and then breathe into a spirometer that the doctor's face clouded. When he managed to get Malcolm to get his shirt off (another little note: the man was practically _malnourished_ ) and started tapping and listening to the ominous rattle, he frowned.

'So, what's the prognosis?' Malcolm harried him, shrugging on his shirt and buttoning it with almost prissy fastidiousness.

'Well, it's nothing to worry about -'

'Jesus fuck. It's cancer, isn't it?'

The doctor allowed himself a tiny reassuring smile. 'Not at all Mr. Tucker. Your charming PA feared that you might have some form of tuberculosis, which I'm happy to say we can now rule out. But you do have pleuropneumonia, with a touch of bronchitis. Together with your underlying chest issues-'

'It's _asthma_ , ok? It's not a fucking _chest issue_. Christ, you make me sound like I can barely walk because of my fucking iron fucking lung.'

Dr. Doyle made a faint clicking noise with his tongue. 'With your asthma, it is a slight cause for concern. I'll prescribe antibiotics and... absolute rest for at least a fortnight. You don't have any other medical issues of which I should be aware?'

'Like _what_ ,' Malcolm snarled.

'Well, if you have any sort of immune deficiency, that would could cause quite severe complications, or-'

Malcolm stared, momentarily lost for words. 'Of _course_ I don't have any 'immune deficiencies', you fucking _wanker_. What the fucking holy fuck are you suggesting? What's Sam said?'

The doctor shook his head and noted this all down. 'I assure you it's a standard question, Mr. Tucker. It's sometimes a doctor's job to ask unpleasant questions. Very well, I shall take your word for it. In that case, I shall speak to Sam about when we might be able to get you away. A friend of mine runs an excellent facility in Switzerland which would be perfectly suited for a case such as your own.'

Malcolm's lip had curled at 'facility in Switzerland' but he knew where (and with whom) to pick his battles, so he let it all wash over him. He was suddenly inexpressibly tired.

2 Of the many contenders, the one deed that Malcolm knows will definitely condemn him to Hell is introducing Sam to Jamie 1a.  
2a What Malcolm does not consider is that Sam may well enjoy working for his bunch of psychos as much as she does precisely because she's _always been like that_ and knowing people like Malcolm and Jamie just provides her with an excuse. You don't get to be Head Girl of a school of hundreds of upper-class hellions by being a fluffy bunny.  
3'And how many alcohol units would you say you consume in an average week?'  
'Depends. Often I don't drink at all for months. And never that much. Last time I was properly drunk was years ago.'  
Dr. Doyle raised an eyebrow at that and said in a cultured Edinburgh accent that could have been calculated to irritate Malcolm, 'Really, Mr. Tucker? Let me remind you that I will treat anything you say with strictest confidentiality.'  
'I'll have you for fucking racist fucking discrimination, whatever young Sam says about your credentials,' Malcolm had hissed. 'Not all Scots are alco-fucking-holics, you know. _Trainspotters_ wasn'a fucking documentary, ok?'  
The doctor made a little note.  
'And do you partake in regular or occasional drug use? Eat unhealthily? Snack between meals?'  
'Not for, christ, nearly thirty years - no - and no, only the odd piece of fruit.' Another disbelieving pause. 'Ask Sam, she'll confirm all that, and she'd know. Oh, and she sometimes ties me up and forces me to eat biscuits3a, so you can take that up with her.'  
Another little note.  
3a It's a good job Malcolm never made that joke in front of Julius Nicholson. The combined erotic imagery of Malcolm tied up and _biscuits_ might have made him spoil a perfectly good pair of trousers. _And I don't know about you, Malcolm, but the dry cleaners give me very odd looks when I ask them to clear up this sort of stain_.  


\--

'Yes, Switzerland. Very quiet, very restful. The Gornetz Platz, which is in the Oberland, I think... Yes, big dogs with brandy round their necks. Not that they'll let him have alcohol, carried on dogs or not.' Sam was speaking on her private Blackberry at home. At the other end of the line, Jamie was pacing around his flat, occasionally picking up things at random and hurling them at the wall.

'I suppose the old faggot says he won't go.'

'Of course. Says the country will fall apart without him, but Parliament's going into recess soon so I think we could spare a fortnight.'

'Aye, I hear the Indie-fucking-pendent has a forty-page foldout wall chart on the world's least interesting dildoes all ready to go. I wonder which picture of Julius shinycuntface Nicholson they've used?'

'All the ministers are on holiday and there's a long-standing tradition that neither party briefs about the other for a fortnight.'

'He'll no' go, you wee choob. Even if we make him leave, he'll just sneak back from the airport.'

'What if you stayed here to keep an eye on things and I went with him? All the best elderly invalids need a travelling companion.'

Jamie snorted loudly. 'You'll kill him off if he hears you even _joking_ about him being elderly. And then he'll come back from the fucking dead just so he can kill you... but it's not a bad idea, for all that. D'you think we could persuade him.'

'I could guilt trip and you shout?'

Jamie kicked the wall. The things he _did_ for Malcolm. 'Nah, it'll take something stronger than that. This time, I think you should do your frigid ice bitch routine and present him with the tickets and tell him you've cleared his fucking diary so it's either that or sitting at home staring at the walls and having your pet doctor visit him every day to ram his hairy fist down Malc's fucking neck until he can feel about in the bastard's lungs himself to check he hasn't fucking kicked the bucket yet.'

'And you will do what, exactly?'

'Darling, I will bat my beautiful fucking eyes and tell the auld fucker how _worried_ I am. I might even smash an onion against some fucker's head, sniff the fumes until I fucking _cry_ and then turn up at Malc's house and beg him not to die.'

Sam grinned. If Jamie caught Malcolm on one of his increasingly frequent bad days, he'd probably not need the onion. 'Poor bastard doesn't stand a chance.' She felt the smallest twinge of guilt. But Jamie wouldn't even be lying, and it was all for Malcolm's own good in the end. Probably it would do them both good to talk about it.

-

Apart from Jamie's showdown with Malcolm (Malcolm had been the most vicious he'd ever been with Jamie4, beginning with several pointed remarks about the lack of any right Jamie had to be _worried_ about him and moving on to how Jamie's attempt at emotional blackmail was based on the erroneous assumption that Malcolm gave a shit about Jamie's feelings, before culminating in Malcolm confiscating Jamie's key by force 'because I'd sooner let a little cunt like Ollie fucking Reeder fuck me up my unlubricated arsehole than let you into my flat when I'm not here', which was when Jamie knew he'd won), the main problem was keeping the whole thing secret. And even that proved less of a problem than Sam had feared.

Malcolm going away was easy enough. He claimed he was going to Switzerland because he fancied 'some fucking peace and quiet, away from all you fucking mouth-breathers', and no one believed him. They all assumed it was part of a Machiavellian plan beyond their understanding. (At least two Cabinet ministers rebooked their holidays, convinced that Malcolm had decided to spy on them while they were away. The new, rebooked holidays coincidentally now involved their wives and children.)

Sam said she was holidaying with friends and icily refused to be pressed on any more details. Most people assumed she had some gorgeous lover hidden away and they were going away on a shagbreak. If Sam knew they thought that, she did nothing to dissuade them from the idea.

And Jamie was staying in London to keep everyone in line, much to his delight and everybody else's brown-trousered fear.

4 It took two bottles of whisky, several reminders that he _knew_ Malcolm didn't really mean most it and, though he'd rather die than admit it, a calming conversation with Sam where she'd been embarrassingly grateful and thanked him profusely, before he could face going home.  


-

The less said about the journey, the better. Malcolm, considerably weaker than he would admit even to himself, had tried to insist on carrying not only his own luggage but Sam's as well, before Jamie threatened to kneecap him and strongarm Sam into asking the airport staff for a wheelchair for her puir sick _grandfather_. Malcolm's sudden acquiescence led to intense relief on Sam's part and growing worry on Jamie's. Malcolm couldn't be _resigned_. If he gave in like that, he'd probably _die_. Fighting was, as far as Jamie could tell, all that had kept Malcolm alive for at least the last five years. Or the fucker'd die anyway, just because it he knew it would annoy Jamie. All in all, it was a miracle that Jamie let Sam lead Malcolm 5 through the boarding gates and out of his sight.

5Of course, Sam was quite careful not to _lead Malcolm_. She just happened to be the PA with all the boring admin paper stuff like boarding passes and luggage stamps and seat reservations, so it was natural that she went first. Malcolm only let her because he employed people to do precisely this sort of boring menial tasks. Though the airport strip lighting _was_ making his eyes feel a bit funny.  


-

Things did not improve when the first two nurses they met both assumed that Sam was Malcolm's devoted daughter (it would be hard to tell which of them hated this more; knowing that mathematically it was more than possible didn't help), but Malcolm relaxed considerably when they reassured him that he did have a private room (with Sam next door). When the room turned out to be a neat box decorated in shades of white, lime-washed pine and pale blue, he relaxed further.

-

It took an hour and a half before Sam heard shouting and went through into Malcolm's room. The doctor, in careful English, was explaining that the wireless in his room had been disconnected, that there was deliberately no television and that it would be at least a week before he was allowed a newspaper. Sam wasn't sure whether it was the lack of distraction or the lack of control that would unsettle him most. The yelling that had alerted Sam was the doctor's. Malcolm had nearly broken his wrist when the man tried to take his Blackberry.

'You'll have to pry that out my cold, dead hand if you want it.'

The doctor gave a very diplomatic Swiss cough. 'Ahem. Mr Tucker, it is entirely possible that is what we will be doing, if you do not submit to, ah, the appropriate treatment.'

Malcolm, who could google bronchitis as well as the next sad fuck, apparently interpreted this as a threat. Unfortunately, his instinctive response - sucking in a deep breath and pulling himself to his full height - provoked another outburst of coughing, which left him wheezing and staring, disorientated, at the small scarlet splashes decorating his grey palm. Sam wordlessly handed him a paper tissue (Malcolm disliked them, but they were a necessary evil for a man too fastidious to get blood on his hankerchief).

He was out of his work clothes, pastel fleece bringing out the blue undertones of his skin, and he was backed into a corner of the room, one hand resting with deceptive lightness on the lime-washed pine nightstand. He could still glare well enough that the doctor found himself flexing his injured wrist to see if he could still move it. The standoff was only resolved when Sam took charge of the phone with a promise to Malcolm that she'd give him a daily digest of both the news and any calls he'd had, and a promise to the doctor that if Malcolm looked agitated, she'd stop all reports on the outside world.

-

The next day passed in silence. Malcolm slept heavily and unnaturally and Sam delivered a hissing stream of invective at the first doctor she found which finished with her informing him that from now she would be personally testing all food and drink they served Malcolm and that if he ever found out that they'd drugged him to sleep, she'd stand right next to him and hold his coat while he beat them to death.

The day after that, Malcolm was awake. It was only by constantly recalling precisely how corpselike he had looked the day before that Sam got through the day. Finally, in the afternoon (when Malcolm was _supposed_ to be having a lie down), Sam inadvertently set off the next bout of shouting by asking Malcolm if he wanted to do a crossword. The unlikely suggestion was her final attempt to distract Malcolm.

She was worried how he was taking to being confined to his room. He was alternating between bouts of frighteningly deep (though mercifully undrugged) sleep and tetchy, uncomfortable wakefulness when his eyes darted round the room like a caged animal. His mind, used to receiving a constant influx of news and devising complex cretin-management strategies whilst simultaneously working out and updating 5-minute, 5-day and 5-year plans, couldn't cope with the sudden halt. Sam, in desperation, was suggesting anything she thought might occupy him for a second.

'Do I _look_ like the sort of person who does crosswords, Sam? Do I look like Glenn cunting Cullen or Julius Nicholson? Do I? Do I look like an aged fucking retainer in some Mer-cunt Fucking Ivory bloody boring sepia shite? Do I look like an inflated condom that someone's drawn a smiley face on?'

Unfortunately, this impressive rant was cut shout by an equally impressive bout of coughing that forced Malcolm to sink gently onto the edge of the impeccably made bed. After one final, Dementor-like rattle, Malcolm held out a hand and Sam silently passed over his inhaler, pretending very hard that she couldn't see his thin fingers trembling.

The flaxen-haired nurse on duty came in, calmly concerned. Sam watched, amazed, as Malcolm's spine snapped straight and his charisma flared out, as though someone had struck a match. After assuring the nurse that he was fine, 'just stood up too quickly, that's all,' she left again. She paused in the doorway to remind Malcolm with a smile that he wasn't really allowed out of bed until Sunday.

This was only Tuesday.

Malcolm announced with immense dignity that was going to have a wee rest. Sam knew when she was dismissed.

-

Sam was sitting in the pretty communal dining room (guests6 could dine either in their own rooms, or - if they were allowed to be up and about - in the dining room), starting on the first chapter through one of the books she'd bought7. She became gradually aware that someone had sat down opposite her.

Sam looked up. Twinkly black eyes set in an alarmingly pale face looked back at her. Sam's first thought was that she hadn't known the clinic also treated mental cases. The woman had long black hair plaited and twirled into 'earphones' over her ears and a deep, thick fringe.

'Hello,' she said, in a clear voice pitched somewhere between 'choirboy' and 'police siren'. 'I hope you don't mind me introducing myself, but I saw you sitting here all on your own and I do so like to say hello to all the new guests and their families! Of course,' she continued, scarcely drawing breath, 'during term time I'm over at the school a great deal - the Chalet School, you know, we've always been associated with the San. Though we don't call it the San anymore, of course!'

Perhaps it had been the mention of school, but Sam rapidly snapped out of her initial confusion and pinpointed the woman's type: nosy prefect, trying to help. She smiled. 'How do you do...' she paused, significantly.

'Oh, how stupid of me! I'm Josephine Maynard - Frau Doktor Maynard, really, my husband is Head here - but you can call me Jo. You'll find soon enough that everyone around here does.'

'Sam,' Sam introduced herself and allowed herself the briefest flick of the eyes towards her book.

'Sam! How delightful. I suppose it's a short?'

'No, just Sam I'm afraid.'8

'Oh, well.' The woman rallied admirably. 'Are you here with a relative? You know we often have girls at the school whose parents are in the San.'

'I'm 28,' Sam said gently, but firmly. 'I'm probably a bit old for your school.' She smiled disarmingly. 'And I'm here with my boss. I'm helping him keep in touch with his business while he recuperates.'

'Well, how _dedicated_ 9. I think that's marvellous. I do hope he isn't too ill - the doctors here are fabulous,' she said and Sam, despite herself, found herself wanting to tell her everything. She squashed the impulse firmly.

'It was only a mild chest infection. But the air in London is so unhealthy.'

'Oh, quite. The air here is _marvellous_.'

Sam had no problem agreeing wholeheartedly with that and steered the conversation carefully into a discussion of the weather.

They were interrupted by a child's shriek. Jo's head whipped round. 'That's my Cecil, I'm afraid - she's my youngest, you see - and inclined to be fractious. I expect she's teething.'

Sam gave the polite smile of a woman with no discernible maternal instinct. A stout young nurse came over, leading a small child by the hand. 'I'm sorry, Frau Docktor Maynard, but she was wanting her Mama.'

'Was she, precious! Well, mein liebling, you have your Mama now, but you must learn not to shout like that. Especially not when there are so many people here who need their rest.'

'I'm thorry, Mama. I'll be good now! Promith!'

Sam decided to go for a walk.

6Always 'guests'. Never 'patients', unless one of the doctors felt the need to be brutal. Presumably this was because no one in their right mind would even consider the clinic's prices for the mere privilege of _being ill_. No, the idea was to give the impression of a very expensive, very elite resort, that _just so happened_ to have a state-of-the-art medical complex in the same place, and were most of the guests _just so happened_ to be suffering or recovering from various chest illnesses.  
7 Choosing books for Malcolm had been a _nightmare_. Sam knew for a fact he hadn't bought any himself (probably because he had maintained an impregnable and psychologically unhealthy denial about the whole 'recovering in Switzerland' idea until Jamie had driven them to the airport). What she wasn't sure about was whether the many books that lined his home were: a) a to-be-read pile; b) already-read but possible re-reads; c) already-read; d) bought by the metre from Ikea; or, worst of all, e) his ex-wife's choice. She'd ended up bringing obscure political thrillers, autobiographies of people all safely long dead and _How to manage your boss_ , which had been a present from Jamie.  
8 Sam had been simply 'Sam' since she was old enough to express a preference. Before she could talk, she had responded to her father's 'Sam' more than her mother's 'Samantha', until her mother had given in and started using 'Sam'. It was possible that Sam had almost as many unexamined issues as Malcolm himself.  
9 Sam neglected to mention that, after a very brief fight with Malcolm (Jamie had dragged her physically out the room and told her to back the fuck down, which was so surprising, she had), she wasn't paying a penny for her trip. And she was being paid overtime for every hour outside of 9am-5pm she was at 'work' (as, in fact, she always was, despite never claiming it - it was something Malcolm insisted upon) with a generous expenses allowance that she had no intention of using.

-

Sam and Malcolm were playing a word game10 when the door was opened by someone who looked like Julius Nicholson's sadistic Swiss cousin. He smiled like someone who'd been practising in front of a mirror and adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles. 'Ah, Mr Tucker? I am Herr Doktor von Julius and I am here to arrange a few sessions with you.'

Malcolm had gone completely still. To Sam's amazement, after the first couple of days he had submitted to bed rest without complaint. He looked oddly vulnerable, sitting propped up on pillows against the headboard, quilt covering him from mid-chest downwards. It took Sam a second or two to recognise his expression as _fear_. She'd never seen it on Malcolm's face before.

After several long moments, Malcolm said, quietely, 'And what sessions might that be?'

'I have here a reference from my eminent colleague, your doctor in London, and he has recommended that you would benefit from therapy sessions.'

Malcolm's upper lip curled, though his eyes were flat and unreadable. 'I refuse treatment.'

'Mr Tucker, I am happy to discuss any misapprehensions you might have. There is nothing to be concerned about.'

'Sam, will you show this man out?'

'Mr Tucker-'

Malcolm glared at him. And then, still in that worryingly calm voice. 'I have not the slightest intention of allowing you, or anyone else, to practise psychiatry, psychotherapy or whatever else you may have in mind, on me. Do I make myself clear?'

'But you quite clearly have unresolved issues... we could make a fascinating journey into your psyche-'

'- now we fucking get to it. I will not be the page-three pinup in one of your psychojournal wankfests. _Sam_.'

Sam showed him out.

'Malcolm...'

'I do not need some slapheaded cigar-chewing closetted jessie _cunt_ to talk to me about my childhood.' A rasping breath. 'I spy with my wee little eye, something beginning with F...'

10 These ranged from I-spy to working through the alphabet thinking of murder methods (asphyxiation, bukkake 'accident', cyanide, dicing up with a fucking huge knife) and compiling various lists made up of their political colleagues ('people I would most like to stab to death with their own fountain pen', 'people I would most like to pin back both their eyelids and write a FUCKING CLUE on the inside', 'people I'd most like to promote' (a short list), 'people who it'd be most funny to set up together' (Sam's suggestion of Julius Nicholson and Hugh Cullen brought on a coughing fit), 'most likely to be have fathered a love child'.  
  
-

After a week, Malcolm went a whole night without coughing once. Sam had her first unbroken night's sleep in a week.

-

Exactly one week after his arrival, Malcolm was allowed out of his room during the day. He was still on the same forced mealtimes (plate to be completely cleared at each sitting, everything to be washed down with thick yellowish milk, or followed by large hot chocolates smothered in a blanket of whipped cream) and bedtimes (a nurse came in to check, much to Malcolm's enjoyment and irritation). He and Sam went for walks - inside only at first, or into what Malcolm insisted on calling the 'memorial garden of eternal fucking rememberance' when in fact it was a perfectly pleasant alpine garden, sprinkled with tasteful statues (Malcolm had one or two choice comments about the anatomy of said statues, which is was probably best that no one overheard).

-

It was a week and a half before Sam learnt that Malcolm. Two of the doctors - now only visiting Malcolm every other day (Malcolm was technically recovered, but was supposed to be regaining his strength, so needed less monitoring11) - were chatting quietly in schweizerdeutsch. Sam couldn't quite follow the dialect but caught enough to gather they were talking about Malcolm.

'Excuse me,' Malcolm said, striding across the room (taking a perverse pleasure in the fact that he now _could_ stride again) towards them. Somehow, he managed to tower over both of them. There was an entertaining moment when they both tried to back out of the door at the same time. In flawless German 12 Malcolm informed them that he did _not_ appreciate his medical professionals passing remarks on his relationship with his-

Sam felt her face flush and suddenly found something very interesting to look at out the window. Ten seconds later, the doctor had fled, wild-eyed.

'Sam...'

'Where did you learn German?'

'Backpacked round Europe in my gap year. And seconded to Brussels for a few months early on in my career.' A haughty stare. 'What? I wasn'ae born middle-aged, Sam.'

11 Rumours that the doctors were scared of him were exaggerated. They had to be, because the man hadn't even been able to shout without hacking up a lung until a day ago. And none of the nurses were even slightly terrified - in fact he was a universal favourite with them. So it was definitely completely untrue that two doctors had swapped shifts just to avoid him.  
12 He sounded even more Glaswegian when speaking German, somehow.   
-

One day to go. Malcolm was allowed an update on the situation at home from Jamie, supervised by Sam. Malcolm refused to put the call on speakerphone, but she could piece together the gist of it.

'No, I'm not feeling better. You booked us into the wrong fucking clinic and Sam had to watch as they fucking euthanised me - bawling she was, poor wee thing.' An apologetic glance at Sam. 'Of course I'm better you little shite. Do you think they'd let me have my phone - my fucking _phone_ \- otherwise? Well, yeah, that's nice that you were worried.' Much rolling of the eyes. 'What am I supposed to do? Sing a few bars of Edelweiss and we can run away together over the fucking mountains. Yeah, I know that's Austria - how the fuck do _you_ know, ya fucking poof? Anyway, please tell me you weren't so distracted by crying into your scabby pillows missing me that you let those fuckers fuck up the country in my absence... What? _Nothing_. Yeah, I know you're fucking scary, Jamie...'

A long pause, tinny shouting drifting across from England thanks to the miracle of the Blackberry.

'Well, tell Glummy Mummy that she should be spending this time with her family, not trying to reach my personal line. She's not divorcing or anything? None of her kiddies are up the fucking duff, fucked the family dog, nothing like that? Well sit on her then. I'm sure you'll both enjoy that. I'll be back at work on Monday. No, you will not be at the airport to meet us. If I catch even so much as a whiff of that moudly psycho internet-rapist cunt anorak you wear, I will personally alert the authorities to the fact that you're a drug-smuggling terrorist and get them to force a sniffer dog up your fucking arse. Ok?'

He ended the call with a vicious thumb-stab.

'What did I do to deserve Jamie, Sam? Did I microwave kitties in a previous life?'

Sam thought it quite possible that Malcolm had microwaved kittens in _this_ life, if it would have furthered his political goals. 'You don't deserve him.'

Malcolm glared at her narrow-eyed. 'I'm not sure you're agreeing with my original point, Sam.'

Sam smiled and poured more coffee and cream.

-

Malcolm's final breakfast at the clinic was enjoyed with a full selection of British newspapers.

'Jamie's done a good job,' Sam remarked, flicking through the _Independent_. 'They're leading with some bogman they dug up in Canada and _someone_ has released another Bullingdon picture-' She caught Malcolm's expression, '- not one of our emergency ones. Just them all in their top hats looking like wankers. So that's leading all the politics pages.'

Malcolm nodded, eyes methodically scanning each page before he turned it. 'The _Sun_ 's running one of its little campaigns, though that's got Stuart Pearson's shit-stained fingers all over it.' He laughed and showed Sam the page.

She sniggered. 'The _Sun_ and the Opposition joining forces to restore good old-fashioned British values?'

Malcolm's lips twitched into a thin smile. 'Time to find my special address book and see how some of the Opposition's love-children are getting on, I think. Might even throw in a few new rentboys - the tabs fucking love rentboys.'

Sam made a note. 'Sun - rentboys - address book set#5a.'

Strolling past the 'coffin ward'13 on their way to a final look round the garden of eternal fucking remembrance, they ran into (almost literally) Jo Maynard. Sam politely introduced her to Malcolm when it became clear that Jo wasn't going to walk on past them.

'I think it's wonderful that Sam came out here with you - and I must say you're looking completely recovered - you've got some colour in your cheeks!' For a second, it looked like she might pinch them. 'I expect you'll be going home soon.'

Malcolm gave the tinest downward inclination of his head.

'It's probably a good job! Any more time here and I think young Sam would have been snapped up by one of our doctors.' Malcolm began to glare, but Jo carried on blythely. 'I suppose you must be expecting to say goodbye to her soon. To think, my triplets were getting quite old by the time I was Sam's age!' She grinned conspiratorily at Sam, who was carefully not looking at Malcolm.

'I have no intentions of getting married. And I wouldn't give up my job if I did.'

Malcolm couldn't quite hide his quiet exhale of relief. 'You said you had tripets, Frau Doktor Maynard?'

Jo gave a gay laugh. 'Those were my first babies - I've always been rather wholesale, I'm afraid. I've got nine in total now. And call me Jo'

'Nine,' Malcolm was incredulous. 'Are you insane or just fucking careless?'

Jo blinked, the only indication that she'd realised what he'd said. 'We're both Catholics, actually. I converted in my teens and I've always adored babies. Are you religious, Mr Tucker?'

'No.'

'I've heard most Scots are intensely religious - it comes of being such a romantic race, don't you think?'

'Is the San a religious foundation?' Sam broke in. Malcolm was glaring at Jo, eyes tiny glittering slits. Religion, Sam had realised very early on in her career with Malcolm, was one of the things firmly on the list of Things Not To Mention. It was perhaps marginally better than if Jo'd asked if Malcolm had children, but not by much. And for the romantic race of Scots... Sam had once heard Malcolm rant for ten minutes without drawing breath on the subject of Mel fucking Gibson and his fucking misty fucking glens shitting bagpipe-filled tartan-fetish shite of a Scotland.

'Oh yes. Or, it was always intended to be. We try not to preach about it, of course, but there's no denying that somehow, up here in the mountains His presence is somehow easier to feel.'

Sam knew she was looking disbelieving and Malcolm was looking extra-specially sneering14. 'Well we must be off, I'm afraid. We're just going to say our goodbyes before we must leave for our plane.'

Jo grinned. 'Well, you know where to reach me, if you want to keep in touch!' Sam managed a weak smile.

'Fuckety-bye now,' said Malcolm cheerfully, and strode away.

13 This was what Malcolm had dubbed the ward housing the more severe cases13a, in a pun so bad that even Sam hadn't been able to stop herself rolling her eyes. Malcolm had claimed it as a 'stress-joke', which meant that a) it didn't have to be fucking funny and b) Sam had better fucking laugh if she wanted to keep her fucking job. Sam had just rolled her eyes again - Malcolm owed her one anyway.  
13aNot the terminal cases. Even Malcolm ~~knew better than to say that in front of Sam~~ wouldn't find that funny.  
14 Which perhaps meant he was less disbelieving than Sam  


-

Sam scanned the crowd outside the arrivals gate carefully. She knew Jamie had told Malcolm he wasn't coming, but as soon as she'd turned her phone back on after the flight there'd been a brief message telling her not to bother about taxis.

Her lip curled slightly as she watched. Nothing like a sea of humanity to ruin your day - all it needed was a soundtrack of slushy violins and vaguely uplifting pop ballads and a Richard Curtis voiceover.

 _It's all about love. Love everywhere. Look, people hugging. They are in love. Love, love, love... All you need is love 15. Who is that poor woman there, trying to unfold her buggy while holding on to her toddler and keeping an eye on her five-year-old and the luggage. No one comes to help her. Nevermind, we'll cut her out in the edit and insert some young fit black lesbians snogging instead. Here is a woman obsessively checking her Blackberry while beside her, her boss checks his. They are both hoping no one is coming to meet them._ Camera pans round, rests on -

Shit. Sam could see him now, standing and staring defiantly at her. Unsure whether Malcolm had also seen him, she pointed him out. Better that he wasn't suprised. Malcolm hated surprises.

'The little _fuck_. And I told him not to. Bloody hell.'

Jamie's one concession to Malcolm's was that he wasn't wearing his anorak. He was wearing one of Malcolm's black coats, slightly stretched across the shoulders and too long in the arms. A button was hanging slightly loose. Clothes seemed to _degrade_ around Jamie. You could put him in Boden's finest all-weather smugsuit and within seconds he'd have transformed it all into something that would not only be rejected from an Oxfam shop, but wouldn't even make the grade for sending to the poor kiddies in Africa.

'Jamie.' Malcolm's voice was clipped, each word a chip of ice. 'I thought I fucking told you to meet me at home.' He scanned the crowd. No one seemed to have recognised them, thank fuck. 'And you'll be paying for that coat, you bastard stunted simian _cunt_. I should have you shot and stuffed and then claim my Nobel prize for finding the fucking missing link between primates and whatever the fuck came before them.'

'Nice to see fucking see you. I see they fucking fattened you up at the old people's home. More fucking factory farm that health farm, by the looks of you.'

For a moment, Malcolm looked self-conscious. It was true that two weeks of Swiss cuisine and very little shouting meant he was somewhat nearer a normal human weight. 'Car. Now.'

Sam collected their bags and considered getting a taxi for herself. ' _Sam_.' Malcolm either wanted to put off whatever showdown he was going to have with Jamie until he was behind locked doors or he was going to persuade Jamie to drop him off and then take Sam home.

'The country managed not to fucking meltdown while you were off trying to fatten up for the fucking featherweight division,' Jamie remarked as Sam loaded the cases into the boot. 'Not so fucking indispensible now, are you? You tubby fuck.'

Quite how Jamie, who lived solely on lager and chips, felt he could criticise Malcolm's weight was a mystery. Though it might have had something to do with the very slight twitch at the edge of Malcolm's eye whenever he mentioned it. Or the fact that Malcolm was so far doing an entirely convincing impression of a man who had picked up a mongrel stray that wouldn't fuck off no matter how hard he kicked it.

Malcolm got into the back of Jamie's car like a man brought up with a chaffeur. Sam gave Jamie an encouraging smile as she strapped herself into the front seat and asked him to drop her off first. Malcolm began to swear, but short of leaning over and grabbing the wheel there wasn't much he could do. Sam was looking forward very much to getting home, watching two week's worth of _America's Next Top Model_ courtesy of SkyPlus, and possibly drinking half a bottle of wine.

Malcolm insisted on walking her to the front door, while Jamie simmered angrily in the car like a father watching his daughter on her first date.

15 Or so they said. Sam's family had substituted money for love several generations ago and she didn't think it had done any of them any harm.

-

Malcolm didn't invite him in. Unfortunately, this didn't work16 and Jamie followed him right in, as Malcolm had always known he would.

Jamie was, all things considered, doing a reasonable impression of someone who hadn't been mad with worry for a fortnight. (He'd only stopped himself ringing Sam every half hour by burying himself in work and imagining Sam's fucking _kind_ expression while she explained for the hundredth time that Malcolm was much better and definitely wasn't going to die and _yes_ of course she'd call Jamie if he got worse.) He watched with approval as Malcolm managed to drink a dram of whisky with no coughing at all. Jamie sipped his beer.

'I suppose you're going back to work on Monday?'

He saw defensive derision spark behind Malcolm's eyes, only to be shovelled away while he selected an appropriate response. Which meant Malcolm had to work out the question. 'What? You were hoping for a few more days in fucking power yourself? Got some great plans you wanted to fucking action, eh - enjoyed having Julius fucking Nicolson coming wanking out his latest idea all over your desk?'

'Aye, well if Julius splattered his lavender-scented spunk on my desk we all know it's only because I was the best substitute for you he could find.'

Malcolm gave an elegant snort. 'Poor fucker. There are no substitutes.' Jamie looked very eloquent at that, so Malcolm forged on before he could say something Malcolm'd regret hearing. 'I will be back in on Monday. I'll leave it 'til about 10, though. Give Sam a chance to retrieve the fucking nice coffee we hid from your encroaching army of oafs and sort a few things out. And lull everyone else into a sense of fucking security.'

Jamie gave a feral grin. 'And then you can handle the fucking strategic wank bollocks and Nicholson and his enormous fucking baldy head. I honestly never realised what a bunch of utter fucking mentally retarded... the entire Cabinet couldn't fucking organise a rape at a footballer's party... you'd have the tart in there with Max cunting Clifford's number already on speed dial.'

Malcolm allowed himself a very small smile; he did like it when Jamie told him he was brilliant17. 'Let me tell you about the fucking medics sometime - no wonder all the fucking death clinics are in fucking Switzerland. I bet half the poor fuckers didn't want to kill themselves until they met their doctor.'

'Sounds like they needed surround-sound bollocking,' Jamie remarked, in a rare attempt at subtlety.

'Sam's not bad at it, you know.' Malcolm enjoyed watching the sudden rush of rage into Jamie's face. Jamie in a rage was always so much more pleasant than Jamie trying to make conversation.

'There's one good thing about you turned into the fucking Swiss fucking Michelin man,' Jamie yelled, advancing on Malcolm. 'Perhaps now I can fucking touch you without being concerned for my own fucking safety. I should have been on a special course for handling sharp objects.'

'I wondered,' Malcolm managed to spit out as Jamie backed him up against a wall, 'how long it would be before you dispensed with the fucking pleasantries.'

'Ah, well you know me, Malc.' Jamie had Malcolm backed up against one tastefully-decorated wall. He hoped the books were pressing into the fucker's spine - it would serve him right for fucking off without him. 'I'm always polite.'

One large paw landed squarely against Malcolm's chest and Malcolm, wonder of wonders, allowed it. He said nothing (he never did) but he shut his eyes and that was enough for Jamie. Let the girls and the jessies make pretty little speeches and give each other fucking teddies. Jamie pressed his advantage, crowding against Malcolm and burying his face in the taller man's neck. He scrabbled impatiently at the collar until he could get his lips (and, after a second, teeth) to Malcolm's skin. He could feel the change in Malcolm's pulse, the very slight collapse as Malcolm let the shelves take a bit of his weight, before there was a hand in his hair, dragging his head back.

Malcolm's eyes, hazel almost swallowed by black, met Jamie's. Jamie growled, struggling against the fingers fisted in his hair.

Very slowly, infinitely condescending, Malcolm bent his head down until his lips finally met Jamie's.

  
16 On the vampire-werewolf dichotomy, Jamie was quite clearly a werewolf  
17 Malcolm has never, using actual spoken words, told Jamie he was brilliant. But he knows that Jamie is aware that he is one of the few people who can make Malcolm laugh, and whose company Malcolm tolerates outside of work. Malcolm also suspects that - given that Jamie is not entirely stupid - he may have worked that there are... other things... that Malcolm thinks he's brilliant at. Malcolm usually expresses his opinion of those by stubbornly biting his lip before breaking down into wordless keening.


End file.
